


some kind of f*cked up

by rosethomass



Series: zayn hearts DP [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pining, more of the same garbage as last time only 20x gayer now, still garbage tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosethomass/pseuds/rosethomass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Any guy that’s okay with being BFFs with a mutant bounty hunter has to be a bit fucked up in the head, no matter how much of a nice guy you want to think he is.” Wise words from a sleazeball named Simon, Wade thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some kind of f*cked up

**Author's Note:**

> here's part 2. **warning** no one that u know and love dies, but there's a car crash and some violent stuff going on here, tread carefully please.
> 
> also i'm super flattered that y'all like my stuff but i'm not?? thrilled? when people send messages/comments like "will u write more?/please write more/i can't wait for more of this!" like ok i know u guys mean well but it's a bit annoying. anyway enjoy the garbage.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” said a gleeful voice right before an expressionless red-black-white mask suddenly just _appeared_ before Zayn’s face, making him jump back in shock and almost smack the back of his head on the brick wall behind him.

“ _Fuck,_ Wade!” he yelped, glaring at the asshole that was hanging _upside down_ in front of him.

“I’m just sayin’—grimy backalleys like this are no place for a nice, good-looking boy such as yourself. People might get the wrong impression.” Even through the mask, Zayn could see Wade waggling his eyebrows.

“You were the one who told me to meet you here, idiot.” He looked up, frowning at the fire escape Wade was dangling from, knees and hands wrapped around the railing. It didn’t look very safe. “Why’re you upside down like that?”

“I might’ve been angling for a super romantic Spidey-style kiss,” Wade said, swinging slightly back and forth. “How are my chances looking, hm?”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Zero to none, probably.”

“Aw, shit.” Wade was pouting—then his eyes widened. “Aw, _shit_ —“ His grip slipped, he crashed to the ground, limbs flailing, and Zayn took a step back to avoid getting hit or getting any dumbass on his Italian boots.

“And to think—you’re one of world’s deadliest mercenaries,” Zayn commented dryly, poking the side of Wade’s head with the toe of his boot. Wade grumbled. “I’m terrified.”

Wade got to his feet and poked Zayn in the chest. “Keep making fun of me, pretty boy, and I won’t give you any of my tacos.”

That shut Zayn up. When Wade’s mask looked smug, Zayn scowled back and then Wade, grinning, started climbing up the fire escape steps, motioning for Zayn to follow. Zayn—lured by the promise of tacos—followed.

“Why’re you in your costume, mate?” Zayn asked when confronted with Wade’s red spandex-clad ass as they climbed.

“It’s not a _costume_ ,” Wade spat back, shooting Zayn a glower. Zayn just blinked back at him, impassive. “It’s a _suit_. Like a _uniform_. Because it’s part of my _job._ Not everyone can go out wearing fucking Louis Vitton and Versace and have people throw their money at us.”

“Obviously,” Zayn smirked. “You’ve gotta look _really good_ in it to accomplish that. I just make it look easy.” Wade let out a growling kind of noise in the back of his throat, irritated. He _hated_ it when Zayn used his own good looks as a comeback because Wade couldn’t _deny_ it, even as a joke, and depriving Wade of the chance of making a witty retort was the one sure-fire way of getting under his skin. After a couple months of interacting with the smart mouth, Zayn had gotten rather good at it.

“So’d you just get out of work, then?” Zayn asked, which was a nicer way of saying _Did you just come back from killing people?_

“No, I’m gonna go to work after this,” which was a nicer way of saying _I’m gonna go kill people after eating tacos with you._ “Not killing anyone tonight, though. Drug boss is getting tired of some newbies getting up in his turf, so I’m just gonna go give them a good scare.”

“Sounds fun.” Wade swung himself up onto the rooftop and Zayn came up after him, taking in the blanket and bags of Mexican takeout. Wade had even brought some beers and sodas in a tiny cooler. A little thrum of nerves rose in Zayn’s chest because this looked scarily like a _date_ setting and sometimes he wasn’t sure how much of Wade’s flirting was just how he interacted with people and how much of it was actually genuine. He squashed them down though—this wasn’t a romantic setting; it’s just the only way they could hang out. It’s not like Zayn could just bring Wade around his mates with his guns and knives and fucked up face and penchant for violence. And it’s not like Wade could take him to hang with his—mercenary? super hero? war buddy? hooker?—friends.

“I just got out of work,” Zayn continued, plopping himself down on the blanket. “Feels like I’ve been rehearsing non-stop three days straight.”

“You love rehearsing.” Wade plopped down next to him and opened one of the takeout bags, handing one over and tearing open the wrapping on a taco for himself. “It’s like, your second favorite thing to do—your first being looking at yourself in the mirror for a couple of hours.”

Zayn picked out a loose piece of wilted lettuce dangling from his taco and flicked it at Wade. It got caught on the tip of the little tent in his mask made by his nose and Wade shot him a very unimpressed glare—Zayn assumed—before brushing it off.

Wade tugged up the hem of his mask and bunched it up under his nose to bite into his taco. Zayn, mouth full of crispy tortilla and ground beef, frowned and reached over with one hand to undo the Velcro on the back and tug the whole thing off. “Don’t be stupid,” he grumbled around his mouthful, wrinkling his nose in annoyance.

Wade looked at him for a moment, considering or confused, and then turned to his taco. “Wan’a beer?”

They ate in silence—mostly because Zayn was _really_ hungry—and once Zayn had cleaned off the four tacos Wade had brought for him plus two beers, he leaned back on his hands and sighed contentedly.

“For a skinny guy, you can really pack that stuff away.” Wade was still on his third, apparently not as ravenous as Zayn had been.

“Haven’t eaten properly all day. Too busy rehearsing.”

Wade shook his disfigured head. “You work too hard, Zaynie.” And Zayn had to smile at that, because it wasn’t a joke or Wade being flirty—there was no double meaning in it. Wade, terrifying in his muscle and bulk and razor sharp knives and infinite amount of bullets, was genuine in his concern for Zayn. It was touching.

“Maybe you just don’t work hard enough,” Zayn teased, looking over at Wade with half a taco in his mouth and an eyebrow cocked. “Speaking of your work…” And he batted his eyelashes and grinned his boyish grin, guaranteed to melt the hearts of millions of swooning fangirls and soft-spot mutant mercenaries, and judging by the look of irritation that flitted over Wade’s eyes it worked _again._

“You’re some kind of fucked up in the head, you know, getting off on hearing the gory details of how I _kill people._ ” There was some truth to that, Zayn figured, but he didn’t really care. Hearing about Wade’s merc exploits was _fascinating_ —the bloodier, the better.

“Weren’t you on a job last week?” Zayn crossed his legs like a child at story time and turned his whole body towards Wade, giving him his full attention. For something to do with his hands, he took Wade’s discarded mask and ran it through his fingers, rubbing against the rough Velcro and over the thin plastic of the eyeholes. “What was it?”

Wade watched Zayn’s fingers work over the mask for a few seconds, and then cleaned off the rest of his taco, balling up the wrapper and tossing it in one of the empty takeout bags. “It was a couple of cities over. I hate traveling for work, y’know. It’s a real pain in my well-toned ass. But a merc’s gotta do what he’s gotta do to get paid, right? So I have to go because this gang boss—he wants to send a message to another gang, right? But he doesn’t want one of his own goons to do it because he doesn’t want an actual fuckin’ _gang war_ on his hands, just to get his message across. Which doesn’t make any fucking sense to me, but hey, they don’t pay me to give my opinions, do they?”

“No one has to pay to get your opinions, mate. You hand them out for free. Like some religious bloke handing out pamphlets in front of an abortion clinic.” Zayn smirked at Wade’s incredulous expression.

“You wanna hear the story or not, Malik?”

Zayn let out a laugh and turned around, leaning back until his head rested on Wade’s thigh—which immediately tensed up under him—and got comfortable. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll wait to make fun of you after you finish.”

“That’s all I ask,” Wade said, mock-exasperated. “So, as I was saying…”

And then he was off in his story—with added comic commentary because if he didn’t make a joke every other sentence, then he wouldn’t be Wade—making sure to not leave out any gory detail or bloody description and Zayn loved it, feeling giddy as a kid as he laughed at Wade’s explicit explanation of how he cut off some guys’ head.

Halfway through the story, Zayn reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggy and picked out a rolled blunt, putting it between his lips while he rooted around in another pocket for his lighter. Once he lit up, he shuffled around and got more comfortable, crown of his head comfortably pillowed on Wade’s muscular thigh. He looked up to watch Wade’s face as he pulled a drag, the smoke curling around Wade’s face and clouding it.

Wade was getting really animated now, gesticulating and making funny voices, sending Zayn into a coughing fit as he laughed with lungs full of smoke. His eyes watered and he sat up to hack it out, Wade patting him helpfully on the back through it, watching him with amusement. When he was able to breathe again, Zayn lay back down to hear the rest of the story. Wade had taken his gloves off and one of his hands found its way into Zayn’s hair—which he’d let grow out in the last few months—and absentmindedly stroked it as he talked.

With his stomach full of cheap Mexican food and beer, his mind soft at the edges from the blunt, and Wade’s fingers in his hair as the cool night air chilled his skin, Zayn felt perfectly content, letting out a long breath through his nose and his eyes fluttered shut. He felt relaxed and safe and peaceful and his hand found Wade’s mask, toying with it again as Wade’s story drew to a close.

It was a bone-deep kind of calm, talking to Wade like this. He was comfortable and happy, and Wade, who by all intents and purposes should be an unnerving and scary person to be around, was warm and funny and good. He was a great conversationalist and obnoxiously hilarious and Zayn wanted to stay all night on that rooftop with him.

But Wade had a job to get to, as he’d said. And too soon for Zayn’s liking, they were standing up and clearing their crap and Wade as pulling his mask back over his head.

“You comin’ to the show tomorrow?” Zayn asked as he brushed off the dirt from his jeans. “I haven’t been rehearsing three days straight for nothing—it’s gon’ be a good one.”

Wade pulled a face as he folded up the blanket—or wrapped it up into a neat bundle, to be accurate. “You mean the show which got sold out in a matter of three hours? _That_ show, Malik?”

Zayn grinned. “That’d be the one.”

“No, I was not fortunate enough to snag tickets in time and I’m not above killing people for them—but I feel that might be crossing some kind of line with you.”

“I generally don’t like the idea of someone murdering one of my fans, yeah.” Zayn reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thin envelope. “Here then, you wanker. Two tickets, free of cost. Bring a friend.”

Again, Zayn was at a loss. Did Wade have friends? He never mentioned any.

Wade looked at the envelope like it was going to bite him, but then tentatively took it from Zayn’s hands, folded it up and pocketed it in his magical Mary Poppins belt holster. “Thanks. I’ll bring Wolverine. He’s been needling me for weeks. He’s very jealous of our relationship, I’ll have you know.”

“Whatever,” Zayn said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

***

Wade didn’t bring Wolverine—but not for lack of trying, or lack of enthusiasm. Logan was _definitely_ into the idea, which was the biggest surprise of Wade’s life, if he was fucking honest. Who knew surly Logan “Wolverine” Howlett even knew what music was, let alone liked this particular brand of perfectly blended pop, soul, and RnB? A shock to Wade, for sure. But Logan was off with his fashionably-impaired boyband saving the world so….

He'd tried others. He'd tried Blind Al, some other X-Men he'd wrangled around with in the past—in the non-sexy way of wrangling, unfortunately—and some buddies from Sister Margaret's. He'd even tried Negasonic Teenage Wannabe-Emo—who still had not entrusted him with her real name; r _ude as fuck_ , if you asked Wade, but no one ever did—and no one had accepted his invitation.

So Wade had ended up taking a long-suffering Weasel, with the bribery of Wade paying for pizza and beer afterwards. Wade had even agreed to _anchovies_ on the pizza, which was a sin against all things holy—like pizza. But Wade had learned a long time ago that if he was gonna go out in public in full Unabomber-chic—jeans, hoodie, beanie, and sunglasses if he was outside and not at nighttime because no matter how fucked up his face was, sunglasses at night was where he drew the line of douchebaggery—he tended to look less suspicious if he was with someone who didn't look as fucking shady as he did. So he kind of had to bring someone along, no matter how much they didn't wanna go.

"Can't believe you dragged me out here on a Friday night to watch your twinky man-crush gyrate on a stage for a horde of teenage girls," Weasel groused.

"He's not a twink," Wade retorted. "He outgrew his twink phase."

"I can't believe _that_ was the only protest you had to my statement."

"Well, he also doesn't _gyrate._ Dancing isn't one of his many talents."

"I was talking about the man-crush part, Wade."

"Oh." Wade took his seat. "I don't really have a protest to that."

With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, Weasel took his seat next to Wade, sipping at the over-priced soda he'd bought with Wade's money. They were good seats—close to the stage but not close enough to get mobbed by people trying to get to Zayn. He’d never been much of a concert-person; too many people, too much noise, and too expensive cheap food. But for Zayn, Wade was kind of an anything-person.

The lights dimmed and the background buzz of people chatting suddenly heightened to a frenzied screaming. Weasel groaned next to him.

" _She is the life of the party_ …" started a quiet, murmuring voice, filling the arena and Wade cocked an eyebrow as a single spotlight flashed, trained right on a solitary figure in the middle of the stage. It was an odd choice for the first song, not being one of the most popular, but it started out so subdued and subtle that Zayn singing it acapella demanded the attention of all five thousand people in the audience, leaving them wanting more. And it worked, the next line being almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd. " _Don't stick that knife in my body_ …"

The music swelled at the end of the first stanza, the rest of the stage lit up, the background singers joined in and the entire ensemble came to life as Zayn powered through the rest of the song. He was so beautiful, in his element up on that stage, captivating and ethereal with his sleek all-black look and angelic vocals, and Wade couldn't take his eyes off him.

"Huh," Weasel said, barely audible over the ruckus. "I think I'm starting to understand your crush."

"I _will_ fight you for him, and I _will_ win, Weas," Wade threatened and Weasel just snorted and sipped some more soda.

Zayn annihilated five more songs with the same charisma and passion, using his boyish charm to interact with the audience and work them up, and then beamed the happiest, brightest smile Wade had ever seen. He took a break, heading to the back to chug some water and unzip his black bomber jacket to slip it off and throw it to someone backstage. The thin white shirt he wore under it was a bit damp with sweat, and his arms and forehead glistened with it, and the uproar of female voices was _unholy._

"I think that group of middle-aged ladies over there just creamed their pants," Weasel commented. Then he looked at Wade when he didn’t respond, took in his wide eyes and slack jaw and said, "I think you just did too."

Wade watched as Zayn licked his lips and smiled a bit bashfully at the chaos he had caused by simply taking off a jacket, and ran a hand over his hair before looking up, full lips resting on the microphone, his soft breaths amplified for everyone to hear. With a laugh, Zayn swallowed and said into the mic, “Thank you all for being here tonight, you’re all amazing…”

And then he went on like that for a bit, talking about how _loyal_ and _supportive_ his fans were and how _grateful_ he and his crew were because they wouldn’t be _anywhere_ without them and the crowd ate it up. Weasel seemed to be trying to drown himself in his soda. Wade was endlessly endeared by both Zayn’s cheesy speech and Weasel’s exasperation at it, but you’d have to beat him over the head with a lead pipe to get him to admit it.

“I’d like to give a quick shout out,” Zayn then said, and cleared his throat, “to a friend of mine. I’m not sure if he came—hope he did.”

“Is he talking about you?” Weasel murmured. “’Cause that’s kinda gay.”

“Shut up, Weas,” Wade snapped, but it seemed Zayn _was_ because he was looking in their general direction and of course Zayn would know where he was seated because he had _given_ Wade the tickets, even if he couldn’t see them from the stage with all the spotlights in his face.

“If he’s out there, I hope he appreciates this next song. Think he told me once it was his favorite.” Zayn shot one last grin at the audience before turning to his band and gesturing at them to start playing.

“Is he dedicating a song to you?” Weasel’s eyes couldn’t possibly get any wider. They’d pop out of his skull. “That’s pretty gay.”

“ _Shut up,_ Weasel.” Wade’s chest was a bit tight.

“ _I found my life, in between shots and getting high,”_ Zayn started crooning.

“Bro, this is really fucking gay.”

 “Weasel, I will _shoot you_.” Wade would be damned if he let his friend ruin this for him because he fucking _loved_ this song and Zayn was singing it _for him_ and Wade was walking on like ten different clouds right now. It had been a long time since he had the capacity to get drunk, but he remembered it feeling something like this.

The chorus of this song, as all the Zayn fans reading this will know, was very fast paced and _sexy_ , and Zayn worked it, pressing the mic stand close to his body and letting the syllables flow one after the other from his lips, voice husky and low like it got after a large drag of a cigarette. His teeth flashed white and the tendons in his throat strained with every high note ( _“I wanna see you bright, oh ooh oh, I wanna see you…”)_ , his slim hips and wiry frame rocking and swaying with the music, and Wade—suddenly felt like he had been punched in the face, a feeling he was very familiar with, although never quite like this.

He was _attracted_ to Zayn, he realized, and not in a _duh, of course I’m attracted to him, anyone with functioning eyes is attracted to him_ kind of way but more in the _I want to kiss his throat and make him breakfast_ kind of way and that was a fucking _problem._

It was a problem because Zayn—with his smooth skin and dark hair and bright eyes, with his sweet voice and bubbly laugh and sexy smile—Zayn was so out of his league it wasn’t even funny. Wade was like a maggot feeding off the bloated corpse of a dog in a gutter and Zayn was more like than not some kind of angel gracing them all with his mere existence. Wade was lucky Zayn even deigned to pay him any attention, and here he was, realizing that it wasn’t enough for his ungrateful ass. He wanted more from someone who only gave him the time of day because of some karmic mistake where the universe accidentally sent Wade something that didn’t fucking suck.

Feeling suddenly sick, Wade nudged Weasel in the side. “Hey, let’s go.”

“But the song’s not over yet,” Weasel said, looking confused.

“Let’s _go,_ ” Wade insisted, and shoved him down the aisle.

When they were outside, Wade pulled out his phone to check the time and saw he had a message from Zayn, sent a few minutes before the show started. He’d silenced his phone when he went in because, like sunglasses at night, there were lines of douchebaggery that he didn’t cross.

_come backstage after the show, i told security to let in the guy w the rlly fuked up face ;)_

There was something about the message—maybe it was the reminder of how horrible he was, or the reminder that Zayn was comfortable enough to joke about it—that made the bile rise up in Wade’s throat.

***

Zayn frowned down at his phone.

“What’s got your panties all tied up, Z?” Griff rumbled from the loveseat across from Zayn’s couch, nudging his knee with his shoe. “Your secret girl ghostin’ you?”

“Fuck off,” Zayn grumbled back, falling back against his couch with a huff. He was being a child, but Griff wasn’t too far off the mark and it bugged him. Wade hadn’t replied to him in a long while. He hadn’t come backstage after the show—Zayn wasn’t even sure Wade had even gone to the fucking show. Maybe that shoutout he’d done halfway through the show for him had been a shoutout to nothing. And now—now Wade wasn’t answering him as often, and when he did it was short phrases or even _one word replies._ Zayn didn’t even know Wade was capable of saying only one word at a time.

And it wasn’t just replying to Zayn, it was texting him first—Wade loved sending him funny pictures he found online or a dog he’d seen on the street or sometimes the view from some ridiculously tall building he was using for recon. Wade had stopped doing all of that. It had been two weeks since they’d had tacos on that rooftop and Wade had faded away and Zayn couldn’t figure out _why_. He had thought at first that maybe he was on a more time-consuming job, something out of town, but that didn’t seem to be the case. He’d replied _I have a job tonight_ a couple of days ago when Zayn had asked if he had anything interesting going on lately, but he hadn’t gone into details when Zayn asked and Wade always went into details.

Zayn was on tour and had left town the night after the show, so it’s not like he could suggest meeting up and hanging out. He really wished he could because if Wade blew him off then Zayn would _know_ that Wade wanted nothing to do with him anymore. This whole ‘ghosting’ business could have a million explanations, not necessarily that Wade was tired of him, but it was starting to feel that way.

Zayn had posted _three_ selfies to twitter in the last two weeks and Wade hadn’t made a comment about any of them. He hadn’t even liked or retweeted them, which had caused a gnawing worry to form in his gut. Wade was still following him, and Zayn knew he had notifications enabled for whenever Zayn tweeted, but he had gotten no response from three separate selfies and it was getting more and more frustrating trying to get his attention.

This morning, after waking up to see that yet another ‘good night wade’ text had been ignored, Zayn had had _enough_ and posted a shirtless picture this time. His fans were going crazy but Zayn barely paid them any attention, waiting for a text full of heart eyes and eggplant emojis. It seemed Griff had taken note of his growing frustration.

“Z, you need to let it go. Posting all these pics for some girl who ain’t paying you attention—it’s not worth it.” Griff was pretending to look bored, focusing on his own phone as he spoke, but Zayn noticed the furrowed brow and the furtive glances in his direction and knew Griff was actually worried about him.

“I’m not posting them for anyone,” Zayn lied and ran a hand over his face.

Griff snorted. “Right, okay. I’ll pretend I believe you.”

Zayn let himself flump back on the couch, head hanging over the back and eyes trying to burn a hole in the ceiling. Why was Wade being so cold lately? And why did Griff assume he was hung up on some girl? He wasn’t _pining_ like his friend was suggesting he was—he was _worried_ about Wade. He was worried something had happened to him or he was struggling with something so difficult he didn’t want to talk to Zayn about it, or talk to him at all. Zayn couldn’t imagine what would be so bad as to warrant that kind of reaction from the asshole mercenary, but it didn’t stop his brain from grinding its gears incessantly trying to work out some kind of explanation. So Zayn wasn’t _pining_ or _moping_ or whatever else Griff thought he was doing, he was _worrying_ for his friend, which was completely rational and normal—

His phone buzzed with a text message and Zayn practically jumped up, spine straightening instantly and fingers buzzing, stomach swooping as he snatched his phone up to see the text from Wade and—

Saw a message from Griff.  It was a frowny face emoji.

Looking up with a glare, Zayn found Griff watching him intently. “Just wanted to see how you’d react,’ his friend said. “Thinkin’ your girl had gotten back to you.”

Scowling, Zayn picked up a cushion and launched it at Griff’s head. He dodged it easily.

That night, after hours and hours of waiting for Wade to text him, Zayn frowned into his pillow. He’d managed not to pine the _entire_ day, Mostly due to Griff making it his personal mission to keep him busy and keep his mind off of that ‘pretty thing that’s got you wound up tighter than a wine cork’. But now he was alone and it was the perfect time to brood pathetically.

Sighing, Zayn rolled over and grabbed his phone, full of messages and notifications from friends and family and fans and crew and management team members and everyone who cared about Zayn—except one.

_what have i got to do to get ur attention these days dp ?_

With a bitter snort, Zayn sent the message, tossed his phone aside and turned over in his bed. He curled up under his sheets and scowled into his pillow. Wade could reply if he wanted, or not. Zayn didn’t care. He was sleeping now. If Wade did fucking _deign_ to speak to him, Zayn would see it in the morning.

There was no reply in the morning and Zayn had to take a deep breath to keep himself from crying. He hadn’t gotten much sleep and his nerves were raw and waking up to _nothing_ from the one person he really wanted to speak to above all others—it felt like a cut in his stomach.

He typed out another message, the last of them if Wade didn’t respond, he decided. He’d had enough of this. He had plenty of other friends to talk to and other things to worry about.

Zayn turned over in bed pulled the sheets over his head. Yes, he had better things to do than mope about how his stupid mutant mercenary friend wasn’t texting him back—but he could indulge in just a few more minutes of it for now.

***

Wade loved it when they challenged him, and this guy was really brightening up his mood. After the _shit_ night he’d had, reading Zayn’s message over and over and over again until his eyes burned from staring at his phone screen for so long and his phone’s battery had gone out and the letters had been burned in his mutated brain, it was nice to have someone hurl futile insults and threats at him.

_what have i got to do to get ur attention dp ?_

Seeing that message had absolutely _gutted_ Wade. It had been, like, full-on metaphorical disembowelment and Wade had, on one unlucky and unpleasant occasion, experienced disembowelment of the non-metaphorical kind so he knew what he was talking about.

And now this guy, bloody and broken, was insulting Wade and questioning his masculinity and his guts and telling him how Wade’s days were _numbered_ if he killed him because he had friends in high places and they were going to be pissed—and Wade was loving it. He could’ve just shot his brains out ten minutes ago but he figured he could use the pick-me-up and let the guy ramble. Maybe if he kept it up for a bit longer he’d start offering double what Wade was being paid to kill him if he spared him. Wade especially loved when they did that.

His phone trilled a little tune and his mark—Simon, Wade remembered, had stolen money from his drug dealing boss—stopped in the middle of his rant and said, “Is that the Kim Possible message tone?”

“Yeah, ain’t it neat?” Wade grinned and holstered the gun he’d been holding to Simon’s head. _Simon_. He was sure Zayn would get a kick out of that. Last night he’d typed out _tomorrow I’m hitting a sleazeball named simon. so greedy and money hungry he’d suck satan’s dick for five bucks. sound familiar?_ and then deleted it after five minutes of asking himself if he should send it or not. “Give me a sec, bro.”

Wade pulled out his phone and his stomach dropped to his boots when he saw the new message from Zayn.

_did i do something wrong?_

“Fucking fuckity _fuck_ ,” Wade groaned. He tapped his phone against his forehead repeatedly in frustration.

“Uh.” From his position on the floor, Simon frowned up at him. “Something wrong?”

Wade sighed and sat down on the floor, staring down at the message forlornly. “You could say that.”

Simon shifted, uncomfortable. He wasn’t bolting and running—probably because he knew Wade, even distracted as he was, would shoot him in the back quick as lightning if he did. “You wanna talk about it?”

“You know, I really do,” Wade said, relief flooding his system. He didn’t really have a lot of people to talk to about this. Blind Al was shit at giving love advice and Weasel—Wade wasn’t stupid or desperate enough to try going to Weasel just yet. Simon was a relatively objective third party—maybe he’d come in useful. If anything, he could get all of this gunky angst off of his chest. “I’m having guy problems.”

“Oh, you’re—okay, you like men, all right—surprising, but okay—what’s wrong? A fight with your boyfriend?” Simon leaned his head against the wall behind him, assessing Wade with only one eye. His other one was swollen shut.

“Not my boyfriend.” Wade rubbed his head and sighed. “I just—I really like him, and he’s a good friend, but—he’s just— _way_ out of my league.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s a singer, an artist. A real beautiful, sensitive, sweet, handsome type. The type of guy who has people swooning at his feet all the time and I’m—well, look at me, man. I’m a morally ambiguous gun for hire with a real fucked up body under this suit.”

“But he likes you anyway? Like, even as a friend?”

“Well—yeah.” Wade cocked his head. “Ever since I realized I had like—mushy gushy gross feelings for him, talking to him has been…difficult. He’s way too good for me and he’d never be interested in me and talking to him knowing that, it—”

“Hurts,” Simon finished for him, nodding sagely. “I know what you’re talking about. You’re positive he’s not interested in you that way?”

“Absolutely. He’s too good—like literally, he’s a good guy. A nice guy. I’m a—well, ‘monster’ is a word that’s come up once or twice.”

Simon frowned—or maybe winced in pain? “Okay, but…he still talks to you, don’t he?”

Wade shrugged. “Yeah.”

“And he seems to _like_ talking to you? Doesn’t just do it because he feels sorry for you or, like, is scared you’ll stab him if he doesn’t?”

Wade glanced back down at the last two messages— _why aren’t you taking to me? what did I do wrong? do you not want to talk to me anymore, wade? please, talk to me,_ they seemed to say—and felt his chest tighten. “He’s—pretty upset that I’ve stopped talking to him, actually. So I think it’s a safe bet to say that he does actually enjoy my company—but that doesn’t mean anything. I mean, if you saw my face, you’d understand that it’s not like it could go anywhere.”

“Has he seen your face?”

Wade swallowed. He remembered Zayn’s frown, the upset slant of his mouth and his hand tugging off Wade’s mask almost as if it had offended him, as if Wade wanting to hide his face from him had been an insult. _Don’t be stupid,_ he’d said, and then five minutes later laid his head down on Wade’s lap and let Wade play with his hair. He thought about how they used to exchange selfies, before Wade started cutting off communication—Zayn had never told him to stop sending pictures of his disgusting mug, had in fact encouraged him when he wanted to know what Wade was up to. Zayn didn’t care that he looked like Frankenstein with a hangover.

 _“_ Yeah,” Wade responded, a little hesitantly. “He’s…not bothered by it. But there’s still the fact that I’m a cold-blooded _killer_ , Simon.”

Simon groaned and rolled his eyes—eye, rolled _one_ eye. “You’re missing the point here, merc. He knows what you do and likes talking to you anyways. In fact he gets upset if you _don’t_ talk to him and he doesn’t care what you look like—look, man. Any guy that’s okay with being BFFs with a mutant bounty hunter has to be a bit fucked up in the head, no matter how much of a nice guy you want to think he is.”

Wade remembered saying something along those lines himself. An image of Zayn’s eyes lighting up and his laughter ringing out as Wade described in detail how he killed people, how he hurt and maimed and _murdered_ them, his cajoling tones in that sexy accent when he begged Wade to tell him more—yeah, okay, maybe Simon had a point.

“Look, man,” Simon said (haha, get it?), “even if he can’t return your feelings the way you want—he clearly enjoys being your friend, and you obviously enjoy being his. I know it hurts, but you can’t just shut him out like this. It’s just gonna hurt both of you. If you can’t handle being around him feeling the way you do, you owe it to him to at least explain _why._ If he’s as sweet and sensitive as you say he is, he’ll understand. He won’t push you. And if he doesn’t understand and throws a fit—then he doesn’t deserve you in the first place.”

Wade nodded, suddenly feeling determined. “You know what, Simon? You’re _right._ I should talk to him. Just gotta lay out all my cards—put myself out there. He’ll understand. And, who knows, there’s a chance he might feel the same way.”

Simon clapped his hands once. “Exactly! Good for you, man. Go get him.”

“Thanks! I will!” Wade beamed at Simon and then—“Ah, shit.” Wade got up and put away his phone, sighing. “Man, this _sucks._ You’re such a good guy, much better than I thought you’d be. It would’ve been nice to take you out for, like, a beer or something. We could’ve really hit it off. Oh, well.” He pulled out his gun.

Simon skittered backwards, hands flying up and eyes— _eye—_ widening with fear. “Woah, woah, woah, dude! I thought we connected, bro, come on, you can’t kill me now, I just helped you--!”

Wade sighed again, releasing the safety and pulling the barrel back. ‘Yeah, I know, but a guy’s gotta eat, you know? Sorry, man.”

***

There was a crew of paps—as always—on the street right outside the building of Zayn’s apartment. Even with his bodyguards and Griff at his elbow, Zayn had to take a deep breath before stepping out the doors. As soon as he did, they swarmed like piranhas to a carcass, snapping their pictures and shouting their questions. He was jostled and swayed as his bodyguards moved around him, keeping them at bay, and Griff’s comforting presence at his back kept him moving towards the car on autopilot.

He didn’t register anything on these short trips from the entrance to the black car parked just outside, he never did. The paps shouting and the cameras flashing were background noise, dull roaring in his ears. Which is probably why his heart practically leapt out of his chest when he was tugged backwards _hard_ and a loud screech of metal exploded somewhere nearby—maybe if he had been paying attention to his surroundings he would have noticed when things went to hell.

The paps went scrambling, torn between taking pictures of the chaos and running for their lives, and Zayn’s three bodyguards panicked, unsure where to usher Zayn off to. The car had been wrecked to hell by a truck careening through the street, mowing down everything in its path—the ideal choice would be to corrall him back inside the building, the three of them decided with a look, and just as they were shuffling him back towards it amongst the rushing sea of frenzied paparazzi and pedestrians—machine gun shots started firing somewhere in the distance, getting closer and they were almost at the doors—

Zayn saw the flash of blue of Griff’s jacket as it fell sideways a millisecond before Zayn felt himself tugged in that same direction and a cacophony of horrified screams erupted around him as a violent gust of wind brushed his back, followed by a horrible crunching and shattering sound. Glass sprayed all over him, cutting his cheeks, and Zayn barely registered that someone was gripping him with vice-like hands as he looked over his shoulder to see the wreckage of a small car that had swerved onto the sidewalk and crashed into the entrance of his apartment building. Just over the crumpled wreckage of the hood, Zayn could see half of the bloody, mangled figure of one of his bodyguards, trapped between the car and the building.

“Oh my—” he managed to choke out, feeling sick, not only because his bodyguard was fucking _dead_ but because that could’ve been _him_ crushed by a car and the only reason it wasn’t him, was—

“ _Come on_ ,” shouted a voice in his ear above the roar of the hectic crowd and the gunshots and the cars crashing somewhere else, and Zayn _knew_ that voice but before he could put a name to it, he was being tugged backwards again.

Zayn let himself be dragged into an alley and tossed against a wall next to a dumpster, Griff grunting next to him as he was tossed as well. “Get down,” the voice said again and Zayn just did as he was told and hunkered down, finally looking up at his savior and—

“ _Wade?_ ” Zayn gasped, feeling his stomach swoop at seeing the man again—which was a bad feeling, considering the anxiety and stress and adrenaline he was currently feeling due to the wreckage on the street. Really, he was going to puke in a second.

“Hey, sweetie,” Wade said absently, pulling a gun out of his waistband. He was in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, beanie pulled low and hoodie pulled up, thick black gloves hiding his hands. Casual day wear for him. “Gimme a sec, yeah?”

Wade went and pressed his back against the wall just at the lip of the alley and leaned out for a second, shot back against the wall, and leaned out again to fire three shots. Zayn heard another car swerve, tires screeching and a loud crash echo.

“You know this nutter, Z?” Griff exclaimed, hunkered down next to Zayn in the alley, looking terrified.

“He’s a friend,” Zayn muttered, watching Wade. “DP, is this you doing this?” he called to him. “What’s going on?”

“No idea!” Wade called back. There were sirens behind the gunfire and crashing cars, police and firetrucks and ambulances. “I think some idiots robbed a bank or a vault or something.” He leaned out and fired a few more shots. “Must be a car chase gone wrong—must be chasing that armored truck that totaled your car. I have nothing to do with it, I promise. Random scenes of senseless violence are pretty convenient tools to bring characters together, you know.” He fired two more shots.

“Then who are you shooting at?!” Zayn exclaimed.

“The bad guys, silly!”

“Zayn, _who is this maniac_?!” Griff shouted.

“Oh, where are my manners!” Wade said. He jogged back to them and held out his gloved hand to Griff. “Wade Wilson, also known as Deadpool, but only when I’m wearing my red suit. Today I’m just Wade. Hi, you must be Griff. Zaynie’s told me all about you and, let me just say—you are much hotter in person.”

Despite the adrenaline and fear and downright fucking _terror_ , Zayn felt a surge of anger and got to his feet, giving Wade a good hard shove in the chest just as Griff’s hand tentatively took his. “You don’t get to call me that, you fucker,” he shouted over the mayhem. “Not after you’ve basically _ignored_ me for the better part of two weeks.”

Wade looked stricken. Griff got to his feet and muttered, “Wait, what?” behind him.

“Zayn, I—“ Wade stopped and frowned, sighing. “Is it too much to hope for that saving you and your best friend’s life is enough for you to forgive me?”

“Yeah, it fucking is too much to hope for,” Zayn spat. “You didn’t even have the bloody decency to tell me _why_ you cut me off—you just fucked off somewhere and all I get is one word replies and calls gone to voicemail. I took a shirtless selfie for you, you _bastard_. And not even that was enough to get you to fucking talk to me.”

“ _This_ is the girl you’ve been hung up on the past few days?” Griff blurted out, incredulous.

Wade shook his head, “Wait—girl—?”

There was a shower of machine gun firing right outside the alley and Zayn was suddenly tackled against the wall, Wade curling over him and holding his head down against his chest. Zayn’s hand instinctively curled into Wade’s sweatshirt, hunching himself down and pulling in his shoulders. Griff had ducked down beside them, covering his head with his arms. Wade’s chest was thick and solid and warm and Zayn could feel Wade’s arms tighten around him as Zayn shook with fear. Wade had one hand around the back of his head, holding him close, and the other was around his back, the dull edges of the gun he was still holding digging into his skin.

The gunfire stalled and the roaring of engines and screeching of tires continued, followed closely by the wailing of sirens. Zayn heard the whole ensemble rush past their alley and down the street, more crashes and shattering glass occasionally puncturing the ruckus.

Once the mayhem died down, Wade slowly loosened his grip and gave Zayn’s shoulder a gentle nudge, murmuring quietly in his ear, “Stay here, okay?”

Zayn obediently crouched down, shoulder to shoulder with Griff, and watched Wade head out to the lip of the alley again. Wade looked up and down the street, and Zayn could still hear people running about, scared and unsure what to do, but the main chaos had already gone with the car chase down the street.

“It’s clear,” Wade called and he and Griff slowly got to their feet, brushing off their clothes. “You two okay?”

Wade came over and his eyes fixed on Zayn’s cheek, hand coming up to tilt his jaw and frown at what he saw there. Now that Zayn wasn’t under imminent threat of death, he could feel the sting on his skin from where the glass had cut him. It didn’t feel too deep, and, anger resurging, Zayn jerked his head away from Wade’s touch, shooting a glare at him.

Wade frowned. “Come on, Zaynie, don’t be like that,” he said softly and Zayn sneered.

“I told you not to call me that.”

Griff coughed lightly and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I’ll, uh…I’ll leave you two to talk. Thanks for saving us and all, mate,” he nodded at Wade and bumped his shoulder with a fist as he walked past them. “I’ll let the guards know you’re okay, Z.”

With those words, the image of his dead bodyguard, slumped over the wrecked car, bleeding and broken, filled Zayn’s head and a wave of nausea crashed over him, making him lean his hands against the wall in case his knees gave out.

“You’re lookin’ a bit green there,” Wade muttered and a second later there was a large hand rubbing his back up and down through his jacket. “If you need to hurl, I promise I won’t think any less of you. Your puke probably smells like Gucci or something, anyways. Way less gross.”

And Zayn actually found himself laughing at that, and that—coupled with Wade’s warm hand soothing him—had his anger dissipated into the air, leaving nothing but bitterness and hurt. He took several deep breaths through his nose to calm the nausea and once the world stopped looking hazy at the edges, he straightened up and turned around to lean his back against the wall instead, not meeting Wade’s eyes.

“Why’d you cut me off, mate?” he asked quietly, and glanced up to see Wade’s shoulders slumped. He too was avoiding meeting Zayn’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t _want_ to, not really.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I really wanted to talk to you, I love talking to you. I just…couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Wade took a deep breath, chest rising and falling with it and said slowly, “Being your friend is…difficult. I feel so whiny saying this, but…it’s really hard for me. You being who you are, me being who _I_ am—you looking the way you do and me—“ He made a vague gesture at his uncovered face and snorted. “Not to mention the way I feel about you—it’s all just really complicated and I didn’t know how to handle it so I cut you off because I thought it’d be easier, but it killed me—especially when you thought that it was _your_ fault like you had done something wrong when you could _never_ and—well, I came here to explain all of that, to your face, and that’s what I was about to do when all hell broke loose and you almost died and, wow, that would have sucked—like _really._ That would have sucked so bad, I don’t know what I would have done if you had died in that crash, I just—I think I would have broken down or something. Fuck…”

“Wade…”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Wade kicked the dusty ground with the toe of his ratty sneaker. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do, I should’ve just talked to you, and my friend, Simon—well, I mean, I killed him, so he wasn’t really a friend—“

“Simon?”

“Yeah, I know. He gave me some really good advice and I felt so shitty when I had to shoot him in the head, Z, you have no idea. But like—he gave me some good advice, he told me to just talk it out with you and put myself out there, so that’s why I’m here. And I get that you’re pissed but—I’ve just apologized like five times, man, and I _did_ save you and Tall-Dark-and-Handsome’s lives just now so, could you just go easy on me?”

Zayn shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Could you slow down, bruv? Go back—you were talking about it being difficult, because of how you felt about me. Mind elaborating on that?”

“Oh.” Wade stared at him for a moment and shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt before looking away and shrugging as he said, “Well, I’m kind of in love with you. If that wasn’t—y’know—obvious…”

Zayn blinks. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Wade says again, nodding sharply. “Right well, I guess, that—that now that you know—and—that’s your response, I guess—well, I’ll just be going now—I’m glad you didn’t get crushed by a flying Prius, sorry your bodyguard did, good luck with the music career, I’ll just go—”

“Do you ever _stop talking_ ,” Zayn grumbled and reached out to grab Wade’s arm and pulled him close, pressing himself against his thick chest again and tugged him down—the bastard had a good five inches on him—and pressed his lips to Wade’s. His mouth was scarred and chapped and disfigured like the rest of his face, but he kissed back softly, gently, like he wasn’t quite sure if Zayn was really kissing him.

It was a quick kiss, a firm press of lips, just slightly damp, and Zayn pulled away, falling back on his feet from where he’d been standing on fucking _tiptoe_ to reach him and stared up at Wade almost defiantly. Wade just blinked back for a moment, lips slightly parted and then he murmured, “I do.”

Zayn frowned. “What?”

“Stop talking. I do. That’s why you were mad at me, remember? I stopped talking to you.”

Zayn would’ve punched him if he thought it would have any effect on the fucker.

“So you actually—“ Wade started, hands wrapped around Zayn’s biceps lightly. “You don’t—I mean, at the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, you—you actually like me?”

And suddenly Zayn felt self-conscious. “Well, I didn’t—I’m not sure. Never fancied a guy before, you know. But when you stopped replying to me, and it felt like you were done with me—it fuckin’ gutted me, man. Hurt like hell. Griff kept bugging me about being hung up on some girl who didn’t like me back—and I thought he was being stupid, but maybe he was onto something.”

Wade’s eyes were intent on his face, and Zayn felt like a bug under a microscope, so he took a deep breath and curled his fingers lightly into Wade’s sweatshirt pockets to give him some kind of point of contact. “I’m not really…sure…what this is yet. All I know is that I don’t want you to stop talking to me again. I like talking to you and I like spending time with you and I just—I don’t know what that means, all right? But I want you around, shithead. If you disappear on me again—”

“I won’t,” Wade enthused, voice low and serious. “I won’t, I promise.”

Zayn glared up at him, just for good measure, and then said, “Good,” then pulled him back down to kiss him again.

This time, Wade responded more readily, wrapping one arm around Zayn’s waist to tug him close and the other cradled his head, angling him better, kissing him deeply. Zayn wasn’t sure how he felt towards men—wasn’t even sure how he felt about Wade in particular, but he was sure he liked _this._ He liked Wade’s strong hands gripping him tightly, Wade’s thick weight pressing him back against the wall, Wade’s warm mouth on his and, _yeah okay_ , Wade’s hot tongue against his.

Wade groaned as he sucked Zayn’s bottom lip between both of his and Zayn dug his fingers into the warped flesh of Wade’s neck. Yeah, Zayn definitely liked this—Wade crowding him close, filling his personal space, warm and solid and protective around him and against him. He was pressed hard against the dank wall of a grimy alley with blood on his face and Wade Wilson taking up all the space in his brain, and Zayn felt really, really good.

“Hmm,” Zayn smirked when Wade pulled away, leaning his head low over Zayn’s and gazing at him dark-eyed and intense. Zayn’s hand came around from behind Wade’s neck and brushed against his jaw and he muttered, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Wade glanced around at the dirty alley around them and huffed a laugh. “You know, I’m starting to get used to it,” and he leaned down to catch Zayn’s mouth again.

This third kiss was a bit dirtier, a lot more tongue and nipping teeth, and Zayn groaned into it, letting his head fall back against the wall as Wade went in deeper into his mouth. Their mouths slipped from each other with a gasp from Zayn and Wade’s trailed down across his jaw and his neck and licked at his throat and it was so hot and heady that it had Zayn arching against the wall, pressing closer to Wade and Wade shuffled in closer, pinning all of Zayn’s back against the wall and that was _definitely_ turning him on.

“Wade…” Zayn muttered, shoving lightly at Wade’s shoulders to make him pull away and look at him. “We can’t stay here.” More police sirens and ambulances were nearing and soon the place would be crawling with clean-up crews and crisis responders and whatnot. And the _press_ with their cameras and...they just needed to go.

“Boo,” Wade whined, pouting. Zayn grinned and pressed his thumb to Wade’s protruding bottom lip.

“Let’s go somewhere.” He suppressed a shiver at the aroused glint in Wade’s eyes. “You can tell me all about that guy Simon you shot in the head.”

Wade let out a low moan and trapped the pad of Zayn’s thumb between his teeth.

 

 


End file.
